Contents of a Gift
by CSIvHP11
Summary: "By the mid 19th century women's fighting had come to a close as professional organizations, rules, and Victorian Era prejudices against women drove the sport underground and turned fighting into a gentlemen's sport." Bering and Wells and underground, Victorian, female fight clubs. AU


**Warehouse 13  
Bering and Wells  
Inspired by a post on tumblr about female fighting in the 18th and 19th centuries**

_"By the mid 19th century women's fighting had come to a close as professional organizations, rules, and Victorian Era prejudices against women drove the sport underground and turned fighting into a gentlemen's sport."_

You look up into green eyes. Brown curls lay flat against her pale forehead, held down by sweat. She sits low on your thighs, holding your legs in place, giving you no leverage to flip her off. She holds your arms above your head. Her torso is stretch across yours; fleeting contact comes with each breath.

You become aware that shock has taken over your face and you quickly cover it with a seductive smile. You tilt your head slightly as it lies on the ground.

"I simply must know where you learnt to fight with such precision," you drawl, trying to recover your composure.

"Then you will have to become accustomed to ignorance," the woman replies. Her American accent stands unique in the small arena. "My knowledge is not a gift freely given."

The audience around you is full of more muttering than cheering. None can truly believe what had just occurred. A few of the ladies in the back strain to see over the rest of the crowd – to see with their own eyes that what the others are saying is true.

"Then at least grant me the gift of your name."

The woman laughs, a sound so full and genuine that it nearly makes you forget that she had just beaten you – _you_, Helena Wells, champion of the well-kept secret that is female underground boxing in London – _you_, who now lies beaten in the dirt.

She leans further down. Her breath brushes your lips before she turns her head slightly and whispers into your ear.

"A gift consists not in what is done or given, but in the intention of the giver or the doer."

"Seneca the Younger," you reply just as softly. Your intrigue only increases.

She smirks, then presses down and brushes her lips against yours, much to the joy of the crowd. "You will be granted the gift you desire soon enough," she tells you.

She rises off of you with ease and stalks away. You push yourself up to rest on your elbows as you watch her go. Her strides are long and purposeful. Her body sways gracefully with each movement. You can't help but imagine how her body would feel pressed against yours for a much more pleasurable reason.

"Who the bloody hell was that?" Claudia asks as she helps you to your feet. The girl is a chamber maid from the west side, but that doesn't matter down here. Down here she is one of the young hopefuls you are training. You already have half a mind to bring her to the Warehouse.

"I haven't the foggiest," you respond as you take the cloth Claudia offers for your split lip. "But I do intend to find out."

-oOo-

"Ah, there you are Agent Wells," Caturagna says as you walk into his office. "I was starting to worry."

"I apologize," you respond. "Unfortunately, Queen Elizabeth's butter knife did not desire to stay where Agent McShane had shelved it. I have spent most of the morning tracking it down and relocating it."

"I will assume that you have been successful," Caturanga says with a raised eyebrow.

You smile. "I would still be searching had I not been."

He smiles widely and nods. "Very well. There are a few people I would like you to meet."

He gestures to the other people in the room. You had noticed them immediately, of course – how could you not? – but propriety had held your tongue.

You hold your smile up and turn to the group.

"These agents will be the first of Warehouse 13. They are here to ensure the safe transportation of artifacts. You are to assist them as needed," Caturanga explains. "Agent Nielson will be the lead agent."

The portly man closest to you raises his hand. You take it. His skin is thick and calloused beneath yours.

"It is very nice to meet you, sir," you say. "I do hope you enjoy your time in London."

He just nods and you hold back a comment about the colonists and lack of manners.

"You'll have to forgive him, he's not a big fan of boats and we just spent weeks on one," a well-built man says as he steps forward. "Peter Lattimer," he adds as you take his offered hand. "Agent numbero uno."

You raise an eyebrow at the mixture of languages but he does not seem to notice. Instead, he turns slightly and gestures for someone else to step forward.

"This is my partner," he announces as the woman comes into your view.

She smirks at you absently lick your still swollen lip. You quickly cover your shock – two for two on her part, you will have to be more careful in the future.

"Myka Bering," she says. Her voice wraps around the name, presenting it like the gift she means it to be.


End file.
